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Last Saturday, my much-loved neighbor died.

It wasn't unexpected; she had a rare form of stomach cancer that was apparently incurable and mostly untreatable. So, of course, I am heartbroken - for her family, for myself, and SO much for her girlfriends.

You see, my kitchen windows overlooked her backyard. She and her friends did not use the front door - everyone came and went through the back door. So for the three years that I was lucky enough to be her next-door neighbor, I saw a lot, out my kitchen windows.

I saw an incredibly energetic and vibrant group of woman, mostly in their 60's, who have been friends for years - some since they were newlyweds with small children. Now, of course, all of their children are grown and many have children of their own. I am looking inside your head right now, and you are picturing a group of old women, fussy little old women who keep the extra toilet paper roll under a crocheted cover on the back of the toilet. You might be picturing a bunch of grannies, in their belted polyester dresses and sensible shoes.

And you couldn't be further from the truth.

The women I've watched from my kitchen windows have redefined what I have always thought "old" women should be, or should look like. The thing is, these women aren't old, and most of them have far more energy and vigor that I've ever had.

Last year, they decided to just go climb a mountain. So there they went, and together scaled something like a 12 or 14,000 foot mountain. You know, just because. Because they could, because they wanted to.

I'm sure they never had any idea that a "young" mother, in her 40's, was watching out the kitchen windows, admiring their energy, envying the kinds of long and lasting friendships they clearly had.

Since Marianne, my neighbor was diagnosed, I've seen more of the women next door. As long as she was able, Marianne continued with their morning runs and then, their walks. And as she became sicker, and stopped treatments, the visits never stopped or even slowed. There were several nights I saw them sitting outside on the deck, drinking wine together and whooping with laughter like teenagers.

Marianne laughed a lot. And she had good reason to laugh - her life was filled with a wonderful family and the best friends I've ever seen anyone have.

Towards the end, from my kitchen window, I watched one woman after another pull into the driveway in her car, or walk into the yard from the street. I've seen them take deep breaths, pull their shoulders back, and put a smile on their face before they went into Marianne's house.

We are supposed to look up to the generation ahead of us and learn from them. I just can't tell you how much I've learned about love, and life, and enduring friendship, just looking out my kitchen windows. 

Nine years ago today, my boyfriend Patrick took me out for a ride in a white limo, supposedly to drive around and look at Christmas lights. In reality, he took me out to a romantic setting on the dam at Lake Hefner, dropped to one knee in the drizzling and freezing rain, and said "Will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?"

Of course I said yes, and I also said "Get up. Your pants are getting wet."

When we got back home, I discovered that he had divulged this secret proposal to my best girlfriends, who went to our house and decorated like crazy with wedding bells and bridal magazines. They invited everyone we knew, and we had a suprise engagement party for Patrick and I.

Nine years. It seems so long ago, and yet it seems like yesterday.

For reasons known only to the weird, inner workings of my brain, I can tell you exactly what I had on: a black pencil skirt and an eggplant sweater set. I had bangs, too, which, looking back, weren't the best look for my head.

I only remember that Patrick was wearing khaki pants because they got darker on the knees when they were wet.

Nine years. This man, who is the complete center of my universe, has been my fiancee for nine years. He's been my boyfriend for nearly ten years. And he's been my husband for eight years. He's been the father of our twins for seven years. He'll be the very best thing that ever happened to me for all eternity.

If you're wondering, yes, the ring was and remains beautiful and will always be my most cherished piece of jewelry. It shines like new love and still today, it will catch the light and cause me to catch my breath.

Let me tell you about this man of mine. Patrick, aka Skippy, is the funniest man I've ever met. He doesn't always intend to be funny (ask the Harem, my bestest friends, about Skippyisms and watch how many of them spit whatever is in their mouth, laughing. They'll start quoting him and screaming with laughter for hours on end.). Even when he isn't mixing metaphors and says things exactly the right way, this man is FUNNY. There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't make me spit something liquid out of my nose, or giggle so hard that the bed squeaks, or drop my cell phone, laughing at a text he's sent me. Funny is good, and funny is important. If you aren't laughing with your forever person, your version of forever is going to seem awfully long, I think.

Patrick is one of those men who absolutely adores women. He loves all women, and tends to adopt them all as sort of honorary sisters. It's a rare gift to have in a husband - a man so completely comfortable in a roomful of women. There are many times when we all go out, and it's this great gaggle of girls and my husband. No one is ever uncomfortable or feels as though they have to act "right" because a man is here. We tell stories about feminine miseries and make fun of the other men we know, and Patrick stays with us, fetching drinks, laughing, and simply loving all of us.

My Skippy, this funny man who was by far the best boyfriend I've ever had, has somehow transformed himself into  the best husband anyone knows, and the most amazing and caring father I've ever known. Our kids absolutely worship him and find the times they get to spend with Daddy, whether in the backyard or in the basement tinkering around, are the best times they have. Mommy is for homework, room cleaning and baths, but Daddy is just for sheer fun.

Somehow, he's managed this amazing transformation into Super Dad and Husband and still somehow feels like my boyfriend. He's romantic and loving, and never misses an opportunity to sneak me a kiss and sneak himself a grope. He takes me on dates and listens when I'm talking. He lights candles in the bedroom and turns on music. When I want to talk to him, he tunes everything around him out and LISTENS to me. If I need to cry, he snuggles me in his lap and lets me, without doing that guy thing and asking questions and fixing things...he just lets me get it all out. If I need to laugh, he laughs with me. He things nothing of going into the kitchen at all hours of the night because I suddenly have a craving for something only he can make.

When it comes to men, I've made some incredibly stupid decisions in my life. How I EVER managed to get and keep Patrick's attention is beyond me; I've never thought I deserved him but I've always hoped he wouldn't notice. No person is perfect, but I have to say, that for me, Patrick is the perfect husband,, perfect best friend, perfect boyfriend, perfect fiancee, perfect lover. He's everything I ever hoped for, and way beyond what I ever thought I'd have.

Saying yes was the best decision I ever made. I love you, Skippy!

 

We won the preliminary round of Bud Light's Ultimate Tailgater contest several weeks ago. Now the finals are up and we are WAY behind! If you could please, please PLEASE go here: http://www.thegamedayrivals.com/ , scroll down and vote for PATRICK, I'd be deeply indebted!  Thanks. :)

If you're so inclined, tell everyone you know. :)

The Kindergarten Moms Book Club (there are no books, and in fact, none of us have kids in kindergarten anymore, some never did, and one of us is actually a dad, not a mom, but I digress). Start over. The Kindergarten Moms Book Club meets in a bar (hence the reason we don't have books) a couple of times of month. We meet there for deep, stimulating adult conversation. Oh, fine. We meet there to drink a lot, to make fun of each other and what other girls in the bar are wearing, and to get away from our (much loved) children. At least, those of us who have children are trying to get away from them. The rest of them are there, I think, to make fun of me.

What? Seriously - what do YOU do at YOUR book club? (I'm suddenly thinking of that weird cow cheese commerical, with the trying-too-hard-for humorous-sarcasm woman.) If you say you read and discuss fine works of literature, I'm totally going to make fun of you. You probably play bunco, too.

Start over again. I keep losing my train of thought. Stop distracting me with all these questions.

The Kindergarten Moms Book Club, of which I am the self-appointed president (Fine, you're right. There wasn't, in fact, an election. And yes, right again. No one but me knows that I consider myself to be the president. Get over it. I'll be the freakin' CEO if I want to. As soon as I figure out what it is that CEO's do, other than make great pots of money that they don't seem to want to give to me, for my beer habit), meets in a bar. We buy many drinks, and it's one of those times I'm SO glad I'm married to a man who earns enough money to buy me many drinks, even when he isn't there but his debit card is. (I might also note that the bar owner knows him very well - they are friends, so it's great when I decide I've had enough beer and fun and just walk out of the bar, leaving a gigantic tab unpaid. It's not my fault! I haven't worked at a job in almost seven years and my husband always follows me around and pays for things; I just forget!)

Crap. I got off subject all over again, and I really DO have something to say, something to ask, something that's really bugging me.

Once again: The Kindergarten Moms Book Club meets in a local bar, which we all love for no other reason than that it is close and cheap. There! I got that much. (The bar is called the Cock O' The Walk, which could be another reason we love it. Who wouldn't love saying "Let's go get Cocky," or "I'm at the Cock, come meet me"?)

AT THIS BAR, which we love, for years and years, there was the BEST graffiti. Our particular favorite was written in six-inch tall letters, and said "Kirsten B (her last name was there, but I have moments of kindness and won't include it here, just in case, you know, she finds me at the Cock and decides to kick my Kindergarten Mom butt) has a hairy back." For months and months, we'd all stare at that giant sentence, feeling really bad for Kirsten. And we'd come stumbling out of the bathroom, usually weaving a bit and smashing into the jukebox, and eventually make it to our table, at which point we proclaimed, "Poor Kirsten!" and we'd all drink.

Seriously, it was one of our favorite drinking games. We have many of them. Our second favorite is called "Let's all just sit here without talking and chug beers."

But the bar owner (his name is Chris, boo him when you see him) had a fit of some craziness. I guess. BECAUSE HE PAINTED OVER ALL THE GRAFFITI. And now the bathroom is all clean and damn near cozy. He RUINED the ambiance of my favorite bar.

But, we thought, no big deal. Someone (you know, SOMEONE) will eventually be the first to besmirch the walls and things will get back to normal. And SOMEONE did. And the next week? THE BATHROOM WAS PAINTED AGAIN.

If Chris didn't serve such fine beer and have such a beautiful understanding of how easy it is to forget to pay your tab, I'd find a new bar.

Oh, crap! I forgot what I was writing about! Let's start again, and I swear, I'll get it right.

The Kindergarten Moms Book Club meets in a bar that used to have the best graffiti, much to our delight. (But now it's gone, and we find ourselves less delightful.) Fully 90% of all that divine graffitti was written with a black Sharpie marker.

And here you have the reason for this somehow very long blog, full of semi-interesting thoughts I had while writing it:

WHO ARE THE GIRLS WHO CARRY SHARPIES IN THEIR PURSE? Do they go out and BUY them in bulk, and put one in every handbag they own, just in case there is a graffiti emergency? Is the bartender secretly slipping them Sharpies? Is there a secret cache in the bar somewhere, filled with Sharpies?

I really need to know this stuff.

And, as a final aside, after watching a sublime video about a wedding that took place at the Waffle House somewhere in the deep south (or possibly even somewhere in Oklahoma City), we have decided that the next one of us to get married is SO getting married in the Cock O'The Walk. (How much fun is it to say "Oh, we got married at the Cock.") And my tap dancing friend Lesli has promised to provide all the bridesmaids (we'll wear wife-beater tank tops and carry designer purses) with jewel-encrusted Sharpies. The reception will feature a graffiti contest.

I only hope poor Kirsten is there. I need to meet her.

Do YOU carry a Sharpie? Should I start? Am I too old for graffiti?

Earlier this year, my Uncle Danny was diagnosed with cancer. Coincidentally, it was the same day that my best friend was diagnosed with a severe colon problem. They had surgery on the same day, at the same time, in hospitals across the street from each other.

My friend is recovered and is healthy. My uncle, sadly, is not. I got a call last night that he had slipped into a coma. I suppose that means it won't be long now.

I have spent a little time there this week, trying to be helpful and supportive to my family without getting in anyone's way, without interfering with the last times my cousins will spend with their father. Emotionally, it's been one of the saddest weeks I've ever spent. Oddly though, it's been a sweet time, as well, seeing my cousins caring for their dad, observing first hand the heartbreaking tenderness of them as they try to make Uncle Danny as comfortable as possible.

You are never old enough to lose your parents. My cousins, Lance and Dionne are years younger than me - they can't possibly be old enough to sustain this blow. And yet I know they will because they have to. I only wish there was some way to shield them from the pain of it all. I just want to gather them up in my arms and turn our backs on the hurt until it goes away.

But of course, we can't do that. Part of life is pain and they say the pain we go through makes us appreciate the happier times that much more. But seeing them now, watching them try to prepare for a life without their dad makes me want to scream into the sky. STOP THIS. They are GOOD people, DON'T take their daddy.

I can't do that, either.

Frankly, at this point, I can't do anything at all but observe, and love, and feed anyone who can still eat. Food - that necessity. It's how I love people; if you are hurting and I care about you, I will feed you. Words fail me when I need them the most, but I can always nourish your body.

There is a backstory here, as well, one that is just as beautiful and awful and painful. Years and years ago, my uncle had a partner named Larry. They were together for several years and Larry became a part of our family. Even after they broke up, Larry remained a part of our clan and we love him. He has done things for this family that we could not or would not do for each other, and has loved us when we didn't deserve it and when we almost did.

When Uncle Danny got sick, Larry moved him into his house, turning his home and his life upside down to take care of him. He is semi-retired and my cousins have small children, spouses, jobs and homes to care for. In Larry's wonderful and generous way, it made the most sense to him to care for Uncle Danny.

For months and months now, Larry has cared for Danny. He took care of him when it was easier and he is still caring for him now that it is impossible. Currrently, he is caring for him as best he can with only the use of one arm, as he had emergency surgery on his shoulder this week. Of course my cousins are and have always helped, but you would expect that. They are Danny's children, and love him. Larry is "just a friend," "merely a friend," "not family."

Every person on this planet should have "just a friend" with the kind of soul that Larry has. Every person in the world should have some "not family" member who loves them as much as Larry loves us.

It all makes me want to hold on tighter to my own people  - to my mother, to my siblings, to my children and to my friends. Because you don't know when someone you love will be taken. You don't know when it will be you, lying in that bed, waiting for the end. And you don't know until it happens who those people will be that will love you enough to see you until this point, until you are nearing the end.

 

***Update***

Uncle Danny passed away this afternoon, Sunday. I am so, so sad for my cousins.